


Reliving You

by marauder_in_warblerland



Category: Glee
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-13
Updated: 2014-09-13
Packaged: 2018-02-17 04:37:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2296922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marauder_in_warblerland/pseuds/marauder_in_warblerland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shortly before Mr. Schue's wedding, Kurt writes to the man he cannot seem to shake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reliving You

Dear Blaine,

Yesterday, Adam gave me flowers. He called them dahlia or gladiolus, something delicate in a rich red that belongs on a sports car. He promised that they weren’t for anything official; there’s no official gift for an almost three-month anniversary. He just ran into the flower seller on his way to the loft and _they looked like they needed a good home,_ so he put them in my hands, and I held them out in front of my body, like a baby bird that shouldn’t be out of the nest.

The blossoms spilled out over the yellow ribbons holding them together, and I didn’t tell him that they looked like your flowers, the ones I gave you after the auditions for _West Side Story_. I never realized how those reds and yellows crept under my skin, but now I look around and they’re everywhere. He could have seen them in my notebooks for class or the keychain you got me when your folks went to Rio. He probably noticed and thought they would make me happy.

He’s thoughtful like that.

I didn’t tell him that they looked like your flowers on the courtyard staircase and your flowers on our one-year anniversary and your flowers that sat on my desk and rotted until Isabel’s secretary threw them away. He was so proud, so I said _thank you, that’s so sweet_ and stuck them in a vase Rachel found on eBay. They were pretty, I suppose.

I don’t know if you remember, but you once gave me a mug in that same red. It was the first night that I slept over at your house. That was all it was, just sleeping, but waking up next to each other still felt fragile and new, like unbroken frost.

I woke up to the sound of your stomach growling and a smile that said _sorry for ruining the moment._ I grabbed your hand and pulled you downstairs to eat cold cereal in our pjs. I remember that your parents were out of town, but we snuck around anyway, as though someone might catch us in the act. When you were reaching for the coffee mugs, I made you laugh. I wish I could remember how I did it, but I probably made fun of your parents’ coffee. Either way, you laughed so hard you dropped a mug on the tile floor and the handle cracked off in one clean snap.

It was an ugly thing, ceramic and clunky, with “SOME PEOPLE ARE GAY. GET OVER IT!” on the side. You told me it was a relic of your mother’s “my son is here, he’s queer, and I should get used to it” phase, like the rainbow boa she’d worn at Columbus Pride. That’s when you made me take the broken mug home. Somehow, you convinced me that your mother would be more likely to notice a missing handle than an empty space on the counter, so I slipped it out, like a prize for participation.

Why do I remember that, Blaine? More importantly, why do I remember that now?

Could you please tell me why I can’t look at my flowers without getting yanked back to your flowers and mugs and songs that sound like your smile? I don’t know what else I can do to make it stop. I’ve cried, I’ve screamed bloody murder—I deleted your number from my phone and then entered it back two weeks later. Please tell me what I have to do to stop _reliving_ you.

I answer your calls now. At first, I wanted to stop feeling you in my bones. I wanted to cut you off until I could train my stupid brain to stop humming “Teenage Dream” in the shower. It isn’t working, Blaine. Why isn’t it working?

Did it work for you?

If I call, will your voice have changed? Have you remembered how to sing love songs about other boys? Will I have to hear about another sweet boy who makes those perfect words die in your throat? Will have to hear about his soft hands without whispering _no, stop, you can’t love him_ , _because he is already mine_?

I can, you know. I can hear about another boy. I’m your friend. Always, and that’s why I’m never sending this letter.

I’m putting it away and next week we’ll be just fine. I’ll see you at Mr Schuester’s wedding and we’ll just be friends— good friends. We’ll dance until midnight, and I’m sure the flowers will be beautiful.

Love,

Kurt

**Author's Note:**

> First written for the Klaine Book Project and illustrated by the incredible India Uhlig. Thank you to the project organizers and to gluttonouspenguin, foramomentonly, and amongsoulsandshadows for making it better. Any errors are, unquestionably, my own.


End file.
